Drill bits with the edge knocked off, the saw it hit a nail,
Hammer's got a headache, and it needs a brand new stale,
I'm sure that I'm not alone on these scribing's, most folk won't admit to how their workshop looks, and how it is in every day working. It's not untidy, its in a natural order of priorities state, you know where every thing is (when you can find it) or where it should be.
On walking through the workshop if that's possible, you nearly always see thing that are not wanted right now, and see thing that you had been looking for last week, and now turned up. Things like grinding discs are shoved onto a nail driven into the workshop wall, new hacksaw blades and tap washers the same, various sizes of jubilee clips tied in a loop of string on a nail. It seems now when I come to look, the higher the nail the more valuable the item, and it goes right down to the size of the nail to match what it's got to hold. Put it like this, if I threw myself high up the wall, it would be impossible to slide slug like down to the floor, not that you can see much of the floor.
Am I exaggerating on all this? You will never know.
Axle Stand and his mate, Hydraulic Jack,
Live in the workshop, right at the back,
We know how it should be all tidy and straight,
But never got time to put back all polish its late,
As long as I can walk up the middle OK,
And find where I chucked it, neat pile to display.
I've a little breakdown
I've got a little breakdown and its needs attention now,
Take it to the workshop, to bodge it up somehow,
Need to clear the work bench, with scrap its piled high,
Things that needed mending, I failed but had a try.
Spanners come in sets, they're spread all round about,
The very one your wanting, one you conner do without,
Spend all morning searching, and you end up with a wrench,
Round the corner off the nut, then find its on the bench.
The metals rusty, flaking off, got it to weld somehow,
Clean the edge and got some gaps, must be done right now,
Spitter spatter stop and start, resembles pigeon siht,
Grind it off and fill the holes, and hope it wunna split.
Drill bits with the edge knocked off, the saw it that hit a nail,
Hammer's got a headache, and it needs a brand new stale,
Screwdriver hit with hammer, when the chisel conna find,
And the spirit level lost its bubble, ta guess work I'm resigned.
Have a dam good clear up, and throw the rubbish out,
Then look for where you've chucked it, that little bit of spout,
Ventualy it all comes back, n' builds up on the floor,
Praps a bigger workshop, cus I conna shut the door.
I'm really tidy in my mind, but sometimes I forget,
When I'm in a hurry, and black clouds and rain a threat,
Job is done, tools chucked, in the workshop miss the bench,
It happens all the while, but I stick with a big old wrench.
But on the whole I'm not alone, but people don't admit,
They pretend to be so perfect, spanners back in tool box fit,
A breakdown always happens, when you least expect it could,
Then back to get the job done, as quick as ever should.
Countryman
I visualize things in my mind before I have to do them. It's like having a mental workshop.
Jack Youngblood
I had a bit of a rush to get all the hedge cutting done before the end of February, and then in the last five minuets of finishing for the year, on drawing in the cutter head in towards the tractor, got distracted and it flailed off the whole of the back light cluster and ripped the plastic/rubber mud wing to shreds and left a cable with seven wire sticking out all ready stripped of insulation but about two foot too short to reach a new back light (DAM BLAST & BUGEGR!) that was a bit mild to what I was thinking.
I have had one or two close shaves with the back light before over the years, taking off the lens, or just chipping it, but this cleared the whole site , good job it did not get down to the back tyre.
This is what the rear end of the trctor used to look like
Living Hedgerow
A variety of plants, in the hedgerow,
Se what is growing, and living below,
Food in the fruit, for birds and the bees,
Shelter from the weather, beneath the trees.
The rabbits dig burrow, and birds do nest,
Hedgehogs roll up, in the leaves to rest,
Toads and spiders, wasps and hornet,
All of them living, along in this thicket.
Hawthorn and hazel, maple and elder,
All help to make up, the variety of splendour,
Briers and Rose hips, with berries bright colour
Crab apple and sloe, large fruit much duller.
Oak and the Ash, grow into young tree
Beech and Holly, and Hornbeam agree,
Fill the hedge with fruit nuts and berries,
Beech and Hazel nuts, and stored under leaves
Climbers growing in hedge create cover,
Old mans beard, and Ivy they soon take over,
Honey suckle and Dog Rose, lot of colour provide,
Everything combines, make our English country side.
Countryman
Love thy neighbor, but pull not down thy hedge
John Ray
Can hear them chewing under the floor, middle of the night,
The very board bed stands on, a hole right through not quite,
There cannot be many houses these days that have mice in the house, but in the old houses where the floor boards are creaky with the odd gap or knot hole dropped out. This is just the sort of invitation mice need especially when the weather turns cold.
There's a mouse in the house (or more)
We often get winter visitors; they come in from the cold,
They find a little hole or two, and squeeze through being bold,
Then look for food and hide away, they come into our house,
Who can blame them I'd do the same, that crafty little mouse.
Can hear them chewing under the floor, middle of the night,
The very board bed stands on, a hole right through not quite,
And running along the water pipes, so warm to their little feet,
Nesting in the airing cupboard, in kitchen find crumbs to eat.
You're lucky if you see one, ya can see where they have been,
Chewing at the cornflake box, for food they're real keen,
Whole family of them hiding, wait for us to go to bed,
Then rummage round, find some food, attack the loaf of bread.
The cat he knows where they are, but he's old and doesn't care,
Our dog she sniffs and finds them, hiding under the stairs,
Barks and make a real loud noise, but come out they will not,
So all the livestock live together, I think we've lost the plot.
Countryman
The best laid schemes o' Mice an' men, Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain. for promis'd joy!
( The best laid plans for mice and men, oft go awry,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain, for promised joy!)
Robert Burns (1759-1796), To a mouse (Poem, November,1785)
In the loft above this small cowshed was, I was told, at one time the village mortuary, where if any outsiders who died or was killed in the village, would be taken to await burial.
Its funny how other peoples rubbish can be so interesting, everyone looks at what would not fit into your dust bin. Now take a skip that you will pay through the nose for and given the chance most people will want something you've thrown out , or on the other hand may in the dead of night add to it.
When you have the room to store things for future use, or it is too good to throw away, or been out dated by so called a better product, you keep it incase the new one breaks down.
In the back of our outhouse is an Electrolux vacuumed cleaner, these are the bomb shaped ones that you drag along on two skids with the pipe. I remember when mother had this new, she could fill the bag in one session almost without moving the plug to the next socket (where we took our boots off).
It was when we kids were too young to dry our own hair, out would come the Electrolux, and the vacuum pipe would be attached to the other end and after a few minuets of running it would blow nice warm air. It was by chance that if you bumped the cleaner or its pipe when on its hair drying cycle, and you were the first one, you may have to wash your hair again.
For 40 years of its 60 years life it has hung on a six inch nail ( which is rusting away and needs a new one) in our shed on standby, in fact it was brought out recently to help clean the soot out of the Rayburn, and before that we had a Jackdaw stuck in the chimney and used it to get the worst of the mess & soot up. It still blows hot air out tuther end but unless you want to get rid of your grey hair, I would not use it.
Another item uncovered was an old washing machine, one with the wishy-washy paddle and a mangle, The mangle would in fact swing over your sink, to squash out for rinseing from what you have washed,or stay over the machine to recycle the soap suds for the next load.
Monday mornings over breakfast time, you could hear the Burco boiler struggling to get the first ten gallon of water singing and eventually boiling. Amid clouds of steam this would be ladled or bucketed into the ADA wash machine, in would go all the whites along with the soap flakes. By 9.30am the whites would be on the line on a fine day, and the next load of washing put in.
While the leftovers from yesterdays Sunday lunch ( it was always double veg taters mashed with cabbage, carrots and coli, as father prepared it on a Sunday morning) were sizzling in a huge frying pan, popularly call bubble and squeak with cold beef with pickles',
I Remember Mother's Monday bubble and squeak
On Mother's washing day, she had not much time to prepare a meal and this was regular Monday fare . When it began to smoke it was time to turn it over in the pan, and heated in minuets.
At lunch time every Monday, mother made bubble and squeak,
Potatoes' and cabbage and other veg, sometimes even a leek,
All ingredients left over's from Sunday, put in big pan to fry,
Crisping on the bottom then turned, plenty of heat apply.
Cold beef sliced and put on plates, contents of pan dealt out,
Pan was a big one, it had to be, six plates to fill no doubt,
Pickled onions and pickled red cabbage, went with this a treat,
All home made stored in big jars, made the meal complete,
Jug of gravy thick and hot , often a skin on top,
All of it devoured with relish, plates cleaned off the lot.
Countryman
Mother would be getting all the overalls out of the washing machine, a good three hours after she had started work. The water that was drained out into a bucket from the machine was dirty, so dirty and silty that another bucket or two were used to rinse it out clean. With bits of straw and chaff a bit of stick was kept at hand to clear the drain tap if it blocked.
Its still runs, and was brought out at times when our modern one burnt out or broke down, it was never brought in to use as stand by , but used on the back yard by the outside hot tap. Its never been out for seven or more years so its ready to be chucked now.
Every item you trip over in the back shed has a history, in the first stride there is a very old electric motor, this used to drive an old potato riddle, that had been converted from hand wind to motor driven. It also has a push button switch box bound with tape and string , the health and safety people would love that. The wooden riddle has been gone now twenty years ago infested with woodworm, although we do have its cast iron fly wheel knocking about somewhere.
A cast iron pig trough, big enough for a sow and litter is making the foundation of a small scrap pile along side the wall, not having been moved or used since we stopped pig keeping some twenty eight year hence. It is a bit chipped but still useable.
A cylinder head off an old tractor that had been replaced and stored, this tractor eventually set on fire way down the fields, when it got over heated. I remember climbing onto the top of a load of hay that it was pulling off the meadows, when I saw smoke. A spark from the exhaust had set it on fire, and I got up just in time to grab the handful of hay that was smoldering and put it out. I uncoupled the tractor, and it took more time for me to call the fire brigade (I was half a mile down the fields) than it took them to come from Stafford. No mobile phones then.
Hanging on the wall is an old scythe, I doubt if many people could even sharpen one properly now. This one has a binding on the shaft where at some time it has been weakened or cracked.(more likely run over with a cart wheel).It has a long blade, and was used to cut the first swath from round the corn fields to enable the binder to do the first circuit without running down the growing crop. Shorter blades were used to badger (cut the grass) the hedge banks when the hedges were cut by hand. The hedge cuttings and badgerings were collected and used to keep the frost off the mangol hog during the winter.
On one of the lofts are a set of sale sticks, six still wrapped in brown paper brand new for a Massy Harris binder, and a couple of sales as well. Also a set of binder canvases, these had been well used, it was always important to keep these dry particularly during storage. It looks as if the moths have had about near on fifty year of chewing at them and are now only patterns if some one wants to make replacements. Father always rode the binder, firstly with three shires pulling it, then his standard Fordson, which as school kids we were conscripted to steer and drive when corn cutting. Every now and then we could not recover from a steep turn at the corner, and put a wheel ( or more) into the crop, this would prompt a savage scowl and if a whip was at hand as in the horse days, this would have been used liberally.
Looking up in the beams of the shed are two old combine blades, sixteen foot long. These are dangerous thing if left where they could trip you up. They had been worn away so much sharpening , that a new blade was ordered. The carriers would only carry a parcel maximum of twelve foot so that was the length that came. Four foot of the back bone of the old blade was cut off and welded on to the new one to make sixteen foot, and new sections riveted on.
The old combine went on for a few more years before being scrapped. (See "My old combine" story).
On the wall in the old dairy is the rack on which you used to hang all the milking equipment to steam the lids and rubber pipes. Other items such as milking buckets lids, pulsators, sieves, churns, a vacuum pump, a vacuum gauge, none of which have been used since milk went into bulk tanks over forty years ago. The rubber pipes and liners have badly perished now, but all the metal items are still as used, and usable. The area in the shed next to the dairy has the outline in the floor where the old coal or coke fire boiler stood, and you can see where the pipes went through the wall to the sterilizing chest. In here the larger items such as buckets and cooling fridge and receiving pan would be sterilized , no chemical cleaners in the early days.
In the loft was a long three inch drive barn shafting going from wall to wall with bearings at each end set in the wall, and one in the middle carried on a fancy cast iron bracket. These had bronze bushes and an oil cap for lubrication.
Along the shaft at the drive end was two pullies, a fast and loose one, as in the days of the first hot bulb open crank engines could not be started under load. The belt drive would be diverted onto the loose pulley to start the engine and a stave of wood used to bring in the drive by pushing the live belt onto the fastened pulley and bring everything into work that was belted on the other five pullies. There would be a chaff cutter, a root pulper, a cake crusher, a roller mill, and of coarse the milking vacuum pump. All of these original machines have gone except the last one. Not all would be used at the same time. When electricity came into the village a large electric motor was fitted in place of the open crank engine. Again this would drive all the machines in the barn one or two at a time.
In one of the back sheds is a cow shed lost in a time warp, it still has its brick coble floor and oak cow stalls, blue brick mangers and wooden racking across the front of the stalls, and a fodder bing along the front. Where the cow chains fasten to the stalls, they slide up and down an oak stave, and in the nineteen forties a vacuum line was added, along with self fill water bowls it also has a low loft, As it happens no items for storage (rubbish) have ever been stacked in that shed, so apart from swallows and the odd farm cat having kittens in there, it still remains the same.
In the loft above this small cowshed was, I was told, at one time the village mortuary, where if anyone from outside the village who died or was killed would be taken to await burial. It had a set of brick steps leading up to the loft door from the pub (the Holly Bush) side of the building. In my memories of this room/loft it was always used as a store for the pub, for crates of bottles and the like.
Around the yard are four heavy cast iron wheels, this is all that remains from a wooden elevator of the 1920's era . my predecessor ( the bloke who farmed here before me) used to thatch a roof onto it every year when they had finished harvest. But when bales came in, it got set on one side and forgotten. I took to it as a heap of rotting wood and thatch, and some iron fittings and wheels. Each wheel weighs about 85kg ( in my speak that's about a hundred weight and half). Two front wheels are slightly smaller than the rear.
Some more iron wheels about the yard were off a Massey Harris corn drill, these are 4'-6" tall and was a drill that could sow fertilizer as well as the seed corn. The absolute bees knees around 1950, later, twenty years later they were fitted with rubber tyre wheels. Unless they were well looked after, the fertilizer rotted and corroded the metal hopper and spouts. The wheels out lasted the drills, and now set around the garden as ornaments.
The older I grow the more I distrust the familiar doctrine that age brings wisdom.
H. L. Mencken (1880 - 1956)
The long arm of the hedge cutter whiplashes forward past the pole and back again, giving the flails a second bite at it.
The Garden Telegraph Pole Blog. Yet Another Embarrassing Moment (or should I say weekend) --
It was July and the front garden hedge was looking a mess, and with it being in the centre of the village, and on the village green and next to the school and church, we like to keep it tidy by trimming it three times in the season.
Being almost a hundred yards in length, the hedge was in easy reach for the tractor hedge cutter, so this is how it's done.
So on with the hedge cutter for the first time this year, taking great care on reversing up to it, (you see the tractor has got a very sharp clutch), it takes a good half hour to fit to the tractor, with all the controls and PTO and stabilizing wishbone, run it up to test it, then out onto the road to make a start.
The first run along the shoulder of the hedge, included lifting out a little round a telephone pole, so I go gently inch up to it, then another few inches, but the tractor lurched forward six inches, (the sharp clutch you see) stab the brakes and the head of the cutter out on its long arm whiplashes forward over a foot past the pole and back again, giving the flails two bites at the pole. (A new set of sharp flails had not long been fitted)
Our garden hedge runs up to the school, that's it on the right and that's the new pole with the cable running up almost hidden behind it. Two inches had been planed off this side of the old pole along with rising the cable.
Up my side of the pole was an underground cable rising to the top for distributing telephone wires to all the houses at our end of the village, there is the Vet, the school headmasters house and the a lecturer at British Telecom, also the vicarage and the school, but not our house.
The head of the machine was perfectly vertical, but not quite out of the hedge enough to clear the pole cleanly. So the few inches forward turned into a foot and it chewed into the pole like a plaining machine in one swift movement, and twenty yard up the road was a four foot length of twenty four strand cable, in shreds.
Although it was in a very public place, no one saw what happened, so in consultation with my assistant, we drew a large grain trailer close on the pavement by the pole to hide what we were looking at, and proceeded to examine the possibilities.
One, we tried was to pull the ends to meet and twist the colour coded wires together, so we pulled the cable down the pole a little way, then proceeded to pull surplus cable out of the conduit from under ground . One huge heave and it would not budge, but all the insulation stripped off the cables.
This option not being possible we hid the broken wires behind the pole, and gave up, thinking that we could blame the council grass verge trimmer who had passed through a few days prior.
All this happened on a Friday evening, no one complained about the phones being off until Monday morning. The Telecom, man at his house was away sailing, the Vet was on duty, and had a quiet weekend, the vicar was busy, and the school was closed. (A new eighteen point computer had just been commissioned at the school and a direct on-line internet connection via Telecom set up, and I had cut it off).
I spent all Monday morning carting muck, past the scene, to see what developed. A junior technician arrive at 10.30am and could not find the fault , a more senior technician arrive and did no better, the area manager arrived and found the fault and guessed what happened. I made myself scarce and went a long way around to arrive in our yard for lunch so as not to go past the pole. By this time the area manager had worked his way down the village talking to Reg at the blacksmith's shop, and when I drove by on the tractor Reg innocently pointed shouting that's him ,
I had been rumbled, and even the council verge cutter story did not wash, two weeks later I received a bill. The junior was £28 an hour, the senior man was £42 an hour and the area manager was£84 an hour, and £12 worth of new cable, it came to almost £400 (which was claimed off my insurance). Then two weeks later they came and replaced the old pole and put in a new one, this time they run the cable down the back of the pole. I asked for the old pole but they declined, if I had had to pay for the new pole I would have insisted they leave me the damaged one, but I thought I'd better not push my luck, they obviously did not want to reward "flialgrant" damage.
I Remember the New Telephone Pole
Decided garden hedge need cutting, out with flail cutter,
No small thing on big tractor, one wheel was in the gutter,
A pole it stud right in the middle, blocking my clean run,
The tractor has a clutch so sharp, think formula one the race begun.
I pull right close up to the pole, six inches, to myself I said,
Lift the clutch, the rev were sharp, a foot it whipped the head,
Up near side of pole was wire, to the school out of a hole,
It ripped clean off four foot of this, and dug right in the pole.
The wire we did run retrieve, from way off up the road,
It contained twenty four wires, easy matched up all colour code,
So with strength we tried to pull, more wire out of hole down there,
With sudden pull we stripped the lot, and had to leave them bare.
For two days over weekend, the neighbours had no phone,
While carting muck out through the yard, out away from home,
Telephone van drove slowly by, he didn't find the fault at first,
So he called out senior, who couldn't find it, all was in mist.
Area manager he came by, spotted pole with chunk out split,
Wires he found and came to look, for who he thought was culprit,
Taking notes he did asked the question, did you do it with stern repore,
Yes was my reply, I will bill you for repairs wire pole and labour.
The minion who did come the first, had set upon repairs,
A lorry with new pole arrived, up lifting pole in the air,
Asked for old pole to be left, for me to use at home,
That is not our policy, to encourage damage to our poles,
The bill did come, minion's price, twenty eight pounds hour,
Senior's price but nil he did, forty two pounds for all his power,
Area man was double again, for he did find the fault,
It added up to quite a sum, new pole made it tidy by default.
Policy now is give wide birth, and fit new clutch the tractor needs,
School computer newly fitted, the wall more closely with shorter of leads
Vet across the road on duty, had a quiet weekend tend his dog,
And I did work and sweat and fret, to tell the man it was bad fog.
Countryman
Experience is a marvellous thing that enables you to recognize a mistake when you make it again.
Franklin P. Jones
As well as drink you can get, a little bit of grub,
For a gathering of the locals, this was the hub,
News and gossip turned around in the village pub.
As in all small villages it changes over the years, in some way for the better, in others for the worse. The village pumps went some fifty years ago, these were a meeting point for gossip, and news was soon spread from end of the village.
The school on the other hand has expanded, the frontage is as it was in years gone by, but round the back a complete new complex of class rooms has been developed.
The blacksmiths shop closed with decline in the Shire horse population and tractors took over the heavy work about the farms.
The village wheelwright's work shop closed when the wheelwright retired, which coincided with the metal hydraulic tipping trailers and the popularity of the light metal gates and wheel barrows. The coffin making gradually ceased when the in town undertakers took over with the motor hearse. In the early days the hearse was a four wheel trolley housed behind the church, and the wheelwright took the coffin on the hearse on foot to the house or cottage. For the years I remember he worked with one of the town undertakers, he made the coffin and dug the grave, they did the transport. Now that craftsman and his trade has disappeared from the village.
The village pub has survived up until recently when it closed for some months at the end of 2009. It has been hit by the recession along with a lot of other country pubs, it now opened again for food in February, and seems to be bumping along, only just surviving. It is hoped that it will pull through as it will take the heart out of the village if it closes for good.
The post office shop closed some years ago when the GPO decide to do away with many rural post offices, that again is or was right in the middle of the village, the shop itself went into decline with the rise of super markets and the improvement of transport. Near every household has at least one car.
The postman used to come on his bike four miles from the sorting office to deliver mail and parcels, that changed over to a van a long time ago, in fact some forty years its been delivered by van.
The farms have reduced, ours is the only one left in the centre of the village, four other "in the village" farms have been closed and the land amalgamated with the surrounding farms. Where at one time all the cottages had farm workers in them as they were all tied cottages to the different farms. Now nearly all the cottages have been sold off or let to folk who work outside of the village.
The church itself has not changed but the vicars job is now spread over three other village churches, spreading his message to a greater number of people over a wider area.
A Tour of the Village (1950's)
The Village has its own clock, for to tell the time,
On the tower of St Chads, every half hour it does chime,
This its done for many years, and to wind it up you climb,
Three big weights on cables, crank it many times.
In the tower set in oak frame, sit its ringing bells,
Ropes and wheels for swinging, its congregation tells,
Come to church for service, to have your sins expelled,
All the parish can hear them, peal of Village bells.
The vicar has his job to visit, all parish elderly and the sick,
Take all the Sunday services, with sermon long and epic,
Christmas Easter Harvest, Christenings funerals and weddings quick,
He is kept so busy looking after, all village elderly and sick.
Out and down the church path , is the village green,
Under the lych gates, standing all serene,
Looks a little weathered, for all the years its been,
Guarding the church yard, on the village green.
Also on Village green, was the village pump,
Standing in the corner, on a grassy hump,
To prime it work the handle, almost had to jump,
Water all the cottages, from this well and pump.
Across the road to educate, is the village school,
Teacher at the blackboard, sitting on a stool,
There to help the children not to be a fool,
Basic reading writing, maths in the village school.
Further down the village, was the blacksmiths shop,
Making all the horse shoes, on the anvil hot,
Hammer always ringing, shaping metal without stop,
Give the horses new shoes, to make them clip and clop.
Undertaker in the village, is at the wheelwrights shop,
Lays out and measures them, makes a coffin non-stop,
His brother digs the grave, and family lines the coffin
All the week they make farm carts, in the wheelwrights shop
Next again is Holly Bush, our local village pub,
As well as drink you can get , a little bit of grub,
For a gathering of the locals, this was the hub,
News and gossip turned around in the village pub.
Down at the post office, in the village shop,
Sells all essentials, also chocolate sweets and pop,
Letters parcels postal orders, have a hefty whop,
Rubber stamp saying S------d, in the village shop.
The postman comes on his bike to visit, six days of every week,
Delivering post and parcels, each morning his bike it creaked,
Collecting all the gossip while, having cup of tea he'd speak,
All about what he'd learned, on his round six days every week.
On all the farms they have cows, and they produce the milk,
Beef and chickens hens and geese, sheep with fleece smooth as silk.
They have mixture of everything, corn for cows and pigs,
Hay and roots, rolled oats and peas, feed the cows produce the milk,
In all the cottages were the families, men who work the land,
Herdsmen, n' wagoner's, n' those to anything can turn their hand,
Early start in all weathers, generally a happy band,
They work late at harvest time, all these men who work the land.
Countryman
A sense of curiosity is nature's original school of education.
Dr. Smiley Blanton.
Church Cottage.
This is one of a pair of cottages known as "Spight" cottages, supposed to have been built to prevent a view, from the old vicarage to Seighford Hall. The occupants of the Hall did not get on with the vicar.
The earliest people I remember living here were Mr and Mrs Breese, who were the parents of Mini Clark, Flossy Brown, Vera Doughty, and one son, Percy who was a motor car mechanic at Bridgeford Garage for Herbert Bennion. They all lived in the village. When old Mrs Breese died in the 1950`s, Sam and Lotty Fox moved in, moving his pigeon loft and tool shed from the old thatched house on the west side of the church
Sam Fox and his Wife Lotty
Old Sam Fox and his wife Lotty, lived in the old Church Cottage,
Sam he was a tractor driver , to earn his weekly pottage,
This he did at Green Farm, on a Fordson TVO,
Steady progress all day long, when out to reap and mow.
A tall thin man five foot ten, his clothes hung loose around him,
Hung his head forward and looked at you, underneath hat brim,
Could not turn his head, looked round with his sharp eyes,
Perfect stance for using, his twelve bore with his demise.
He wore a long grey smock, for eve-ry occasion,
On his bike into town, in the belfry did not loosen,
His boots with spats, rarely got into the muck,
So careful was old Sam, not quick enough to make quick buck.
He had brown piercing eyes, through bushy eyebrows looked,
Quick spoken man was he, fast response as he joked,
What little smile he had, turned his thin lips almost level,
Two little creases either side, midst his talking babble.
Lotty his wife worked hard, in her Churchyard cottage,
Took in washing half the week, from houses in the village,
Her washing line always full, all the way down her garden,
Dried and ironed and folded up, and parcelled in her kitchen.
The smallest lady in the village, smoked woodbines all the day,
Washing money kept her in fags, the shop she went to pay,
In the pub sometimes she called, had a drink bought for her,
Nothing strong to make her wobble, just a half of beer.
House cleaning too was on her menu, bucket brush and mop,
If she came across a bottle , only took a drop,
When she stood to have a natter, leaned heavy on the brush,
Lit up her fag to have a drag, on woodbines she had a crush.
She always wore about the village, cross-over pinafore,
Tied around the middle, hem almost to the floor,
Her skinny legs and wrinkled stockings, plus the ankle socks,
To reach when ironing with her fag, should have had a box.
Their garden it was tended, with the greatest care,
Produce for the larder shelves, a few flowers and roses flare,
Grassy path down the middle, wash line tied from house to tree,
Hedge all trimmed and tidy, brick path swept to outside laver try.
Sam had not retired so long when he past away,
And Lotty kept on working , in her quaint old way,
Bought her fags one at a time, as she got some money,
Called at the pub most dinner times, with her nose so runny.
Everyone respects her courage, working to the end,
To keep her woodbines in her fingers she would sometimes lend,
Always paid back a little later, next week do the same,
Moved to Smithy Lane bungalow, and end her working fame.
Countryman.
Along the churchyard hedge of Church Cottage were two very large lime trees, these were blown down in high winds, one just skimming the side of the house, dislodging only a few tiles. This happened relatively recently, in the early 90`s, and took some time to clear up and settle the garden down again.
This is Ivy Cottage on the end of the vicarage drive with Church Cottage on the right in the picture with two big lime trees can be seen towering over its roof, it looks as though they had been "crowned " (topped off) back in the 1950's, forty years later they blew down in a high wind narrowly missing the cottage.
Ivy Cottage
The second of the "Spight" cottages, was built at the end of the vicarage drive, sister cottage to Church Cottage. This was a farm cottage to Yews Farm, and lived in by the cowman Mr. Hill, until he retired and moved down the road. Albert Hine moved in with his family, and was wagoner for the Yews Farm. There he grew tobacco, among the many things he grew in the garden, until he retired when he moved into one of the new council houses in Bramall Close.
I Remember Albert Hine
Dated in the 1940's and 1950's
Albert was a Waggoner, for Charlie Finimore,
A strong and healthy man he was, and stood at five foot four,
In his younger days it's told, he would walk out of the hills
With a ewe under each arm, in winters cold and chills.
He lived at Ivy Cottage, where he grew his own bacca, (tobacco)
For to keep his pipe alight, it was not a laughing matter.
As the summer days got longer, so pick leaves did he,
And hung then in the living room, the ceiling could not see,
When dry and almost crisp they got, into a draw he pressed
To keep them through the winter, by large old chimney brest.
He rang church bells on Sundays, with a team they were so loyal,
They practice in the mid week night, as if expecting royal,
He had a box, of twelve inches, though he was in his prime,
The little man he rang the tenner, keeping stead time.
The team with him at that time, they are well remembered,
It written in the belfry sill, names and bells all numbered.
All day he worked with horses, a carting muck with two,
He had the one up in traces, as the load was from the Yews,
Up to the Noons Birch field, where he hooked it out in rucks,
Ten paces up, ten paces wide, so even was the muck.
Descibe the man were looking at, a jerkin he did ware,
Tied round the middle with binder twine, to hold more than just a tare,
Cordroy trousers tucked in spats, round his hob nail boots,
Cap raked left and pipe raked right, pouch and matches in a box.
His old waist coat worn and taty, kept his big watch n matches dry,
The shirt it had few buttons , and the colar he kept it by,
For high days and holidays, when everything was clean,
And home guard duty, when the sergeant, he was very mean.
His platoon was made up of men, who worked around the farms,
They mustered in the village hall, to train as fighting men at arms,
The pork and bacon beef and taters, butter eggs and creme,
All of these were traded, mongst the brave old fighting men.
Albert kept his pipe and bacca, it was woodbines for the rest,
As the smoke it was so dense, no room for enemy they jest
This ploy worked well , no men got lost, and warmer they could keep,
Til sergeant came and caught them, so loaded up his jeep.
Two cows he kept and young stock, and a few old tatty hens,
The fields where he kept them, had sheds and tidy pens,
He mowed along the grass verge, all the way to Stafford,
To make his hay to keep them, and drew water from the ford.
All his life he worked dammed hard, but slower he did get,
Albert met his maker, he was one you can't forget,
Popular and cheerful, he lived to seven,tee
Buried in Seighford church yard , remembered by me and thee.
Countyman
The two cottages across the road (the one nearest the corner) were lived in by Alf Worthington and his sister. Alf always worked in town in an office, his sister also had a clerical job.
The house next door was occupied by Violet Ashley a widow, and used to deliver the newspapers. She would be up at six o'clock in a morning, and walk down to Great Bridgeford to the post office, to collect all the papers needed for Seighford. These she carried in an old push chair this job took her till about nine o'clock. She was attacked and molested on a couple of occasions and from then on always carried the pepper pot with her, for protection. Violet wore thick lens glasses, like the bottom of bottles, and read the paper three inches from her nose.
On her paper round she always had her old gabardine mac on, along with her black beret with a chimney on top.She was a tall, slim old lady who walked quite briskly and very straight in posture. The biggest drawback with Violet was, that when she talked to you, it was you who needed the mac, as she talked with quite a splutter.
She was seldom ill and rarely missed her round, but one Saturday she fell down the stairs and broke her leg. No one missed her on Sunday as there was no papers to deliver, and it was not until she dragged herself down the garden path to the wicket, that she was discovered, after some fifteen hours on the floor. She was taken Stafford General Infirmary, where she had a difficult recovery, but never delivered another paper.
I Remember Violet Ashley
Violet lived in a cottage, next but one to the school,
Lost husband Bill some years ago, life had been so cruel,
For years now she delivered, the magazines and papers,
Carried them on an old pushchair, even in bad weather.
She walked over the bank, all the way Great Bridgeford,
Collect them from the paper shop, for very little reward,
This she did six days a week, every week of the year,
Bout four miles it was the round, she talked and got some cheer.
When she spoke you needed cover, for she talked so quick,
With not many teeth, she shplashed and lisped all as if in panic,
This is when she met everyone, and carried all local news,
Gossip she spread in record time, to anyone she choose.
Violet wore an old gabardine mac , with black beret on her head,
Carried old umbrella too, on her feet bootee's worn out in the tread,
Her hair was cut with beret on, clipped short up to its brim,
Beret had a chimanee on top, wet weather not looked quite so trim.
Some time ago Violet got attacked, when collecting paper money,
This did not deter old Vi at all, reported to the local bobby,
Now she carries a good defence, her pepper pot in pocket,
Carried it for years in case, and never did find a culprit.
When she'd finished her round one Satdee, fell and broke a bone,
Wasn't found till late on Sunday, she crawled out to her gate alone,
This was then end for poor old Violet, never walked again,
In the village everyone missed her, not long was she in all that pain.
Countryman
Blacksmiths Cottage.
This was a tied cottage to the blacksmith. Here lived Mr and Mrs Bill Appleby. Bill was a blacksmith in town; his forge was in Count Road, opposite the old Stafford General Infirmary. Here, he did no farrier work (horse shoeing) but did mostly fabricating and fancy iron work. Mrs Appleby was the school caretaker; this was very handy, as she had only to walk the length of her garden path.
This is Mrs Appleby's daughter Anne standing where the school playing field gates are now, taken around late 1950's
Their garden was all where the car park is on the front, by the school. The footpath from Coton Clanford came over the Cumbers from the Oldfords and right through his garden, bringing the kids from all points south of the school. This cottage had a few outbuildings for the odd cow and a pig sty, and an outside privy, opening out onto about two acres of paddock. What is now the school playing field.
This is the school as it is today, at one time it had iron railings along the front to protect the narrow garden where you see the green shrubs. The Blacksmiths cottage was between the end of the school and the pair of cattages ( now all one house) you see on the left of the picture. The right hand end of the school was the School House. A huge new block of class rooms have recently been built to the rear, over what was the school garden.
A sense of curiosity is nature's original school of education.
Dr. Smiley Blanton
It was as if the tractor was on an elastic band springing gently from its precarious position, with me holding its balance,
You may or may not know that feeling when you know a trailer that you just spent a lot of time and energy loading by hand tips over.
Set the scene, it was 1960, I was fresh from farm college and had set out farming on my own fifteen months before. A seven acre field of seeds hay had been down in a week of good weather and we had just baled it. The tractor was my International B250 with a three ton tipping trailer suitably adapted to carry bales, the side boards had been taken off, and an extension fitted to the rear end to extend the floor area and what we call gormers fitted front and back( uprights at each end of the trailer)to support the load.
Half the field had been shifted and this load had been loaded from the lower end of the field, the balance of the trailer was dramatically altered by having an extension out the back so less of the load was on the drawbar. To enable the tractor to pull the load up the slope to the gate I set off diagonally across the field and progresses steady without wheel slip.
The load was firmly roped on and being carried on only one axle (it being a tipping trailer) it swayed with every small indent of the field, in this one area of the field was a burrow (fox or badger)with a mound of soil spread out from the excavation, so I decided to go top side of it still along the side of the slope. I thought I was well clear of any possible collapse of the burrow but how wrong I was. The tractor was well past the burrow when the wheels started to slip , the trailer wheel sank as the lower side wheel of the trailer was carrying ninety percent of the load, it was a slow motion where you could se it happening and could not stop it.
The whole load tipping sideways in one whole block, well roped together it took the trailer with it, the only thing it was still hitched to the B250 on the ring hitch hook. Just as the load finally touched down still enblock it lifted the top side rear wheel of the tractor two foot off the ground just by the twist of the ring hook, this again was slow motion, by this time I had put it out of gear and had move to a position on he side of the tractor as that of a sailor in high wind, trying to counter balance the impending disaster. It was as if the tractor was on an elastic band springing gently from its precarious position, with me holding its balance, one of those times when things happen quickly, but in very slow motion in your mind, it seemed to be hanging for ages, hanging off the side of the tractor then I reached for the hydraulic lever and lowered the hook, which gently lower the tractor back onto the ground releasing the trailer.
There was ninety six bales on the load and every one had to be left on the ground while the trailer was righted, no damage was done other than the ring on the trailer drawbar had now got a permanent slight twist by which it had lifted the tractor. There is nothing more annoying than having to do a job twice, and with me driving I was the one to pitch the bales back onto the load. By pitch I mean pitch with a pitch fork, and seeds hay baled firmly they were heavy, and towards the end of the day when the whole field could have been cleared, but for the mishap.
This is it after a few months work on the engine, new mud wings fitted and the wheels painted. See how weathered and green the back end was, it looked in a sorry state when we first pulled it out to do it up.
Thats still the same ring hitch hook under the tractor by which the over turned trailer lifted its rear wheel well off the ground , see the right hand lower picture.
(The following has been published on an earlier blog, but here it is again)
My Old Tractor -International B250
I drove this tractor from new in 1956, It stood unused for almost twenty years, and now it is fifty years old, its been brought back to life.
My old tractor standing there, for years its not been started,
Drove it myself from new, and now almost departed,
Roof is now blown off the shed, and it's rained in down its pipe,
The engines well stuck and rusted, on the inside full of gripe.
For fifty years that I have had it, while working never faltered,
Apart from rust and lack of paint, appearance never altered,
Got to save it now before, it rots and rusts away,
To pull it out and look at it, do it straightaway.
Some tyres flat and perished now, but they will hold some wind,
Enough to carry it to shed, where it can be re-tinned,
Off with bonnet wings and wheels can see it undressed now,
Get into heart of engine see, if can put it back to plough.
Water in two cylinder, have rusted pistons solid,
Sump comes off to loosen; big ends then are parted,
Hammering and thumping, to get the pistons out,
New set of liners n pistons now, cheque book its time to clout.
Got new shells for big ends, and set of gaskets too,
Back together now and see, what there is next to do,
Injector pump with lid off, is pushing up stuck springs,
With little bit of persuasion, knock down plunger fittings.
New injectors they are fitted , valves are well ground in,
On with lively battery, to turn it mid smoke and din,
Firing up it comes to life, from near scrap recovered,
Can concentrate efforts now, look better newly coloured,
Bought new wings and new nose cone, old ones full of dents,
Standing on its jack stands, it's far from those events,
Gunk and solvents' liberally, to wash the oil and dirt,
Lying on your back beneath, and get all on your shirt.
Ready for the primer now, and get in all the corners,
Always find some bits not cleaned, drips along the boarders,
Rub it down where paint has run, ready for its top coat,
Don't want dust or flies or any damp, gloss I must promote.
Front and back wheels now back on, brand new shiny nuts,
New exhaust enamel black, tin pan seat to rest your butt,
Fit the loom and lights and switches, oil gauge and ammeter,
Needs new steering wheel and nut, to set it off the neater.
Out on road run we have booked, got a logbook too,
On red diesel it runs at home, some run on white a few,
Insurance and a tax disc now, new number plates as well,
Will miss my cosy heated cab, frozen Christmas tail to tell.
Countryman
This is the old tractor now, just about like new, we have not got hold of a new steering wheel yet, or the headlight's, it has taken part in a number of road runs and light work about the farm.
As always in pictures, its whats in the background that interests most folk, such as the Fordson E27N set of steel wheels, and on the right a Fordson Elite plough.
Seeing as its hay we were carting---
Hay is more acceptable to an ass than gold.
Latin Proverb.
Milked by hand some cows had teats almost as thick as your wrist , with front teats sticking out "east west".
Dairy cows of old, bore little resemblance to the diary cows of today. Back in the 40's every herd had its own bull often reared out of one of your own cows, served by a neighbours bull, which was boasted to be the best in the neighbourhood. Blood lines and pedigrees' meant nothing when you had a fine looking bull running with the cows, however what came out of the "pot" was very often a different picture. This you would not find out until you had used the bull for three years when the first heifers calved down and came into the milking herd.
Up until that period in time; most herds were milked by hand and cows with teats almost as thick as your wrist were common place, and front teats sticking out "east west". Pendulous udders in the older cows, with udders only inches from the ground, these were kept on because perhaps they were easy milkers and perhaps the highest yielders.
Some of these cows were almost impossible to milk with a machine; the thick teats were not too bad as long as all four teats pointed "south". Some cows had low back quarters and empty looking front quarters, which did not suit the machine milking, I remember a big "duck stone" would be place on the claw of the milking machine, and then a cord would be over the cows back to hold the units up onto the front teats. Often the udder would be so low it was almost impossible to reach down to even get the units on.
Father started his herd by exchanging a sow for a cow around 1930 progressing on to a few more cows in small buildings with a cow shed and fifteen acres next to his father's farm. Then he married mother and they took on a farm near the edge of town where he was able to expand his herd. These would be a bit of a mixture of breeds including shorthorn and a few black and whites and everything in between.
Most of the milk went in Churns on the train into Birmingham and some mother made butter and cheese which was sold locally to shops or at the door. Then at some point the dairy started sending a lorry to pick up the churns from each farm, probably when the Milk Marketing Board was first set up.
This is what I remember of Butter churning
We Had an Old Butter Churn
We had an old butter churn, it was on a wooden stand,
A big handle on the side of it, to turn it all by hand.
The lid it had a sight glass, a valve to vent the air outright.
The lid clamped on with three screw clamps it up real tight
Mother turned the handle, till butter grains appear,
Drain the butter milk, rinse n' wash grains to till clear,
Add some salt and knead them, butter pats for this,
Packed into grease proof paper, on hot toast its bliss.
Countryman
It was mid 30's that father broke his arm and that meant he could not milk cows by hand, and it was around this time that the local machinery dealer had got the first milking machines in. They were keen to get a machine installed on farms in their patch, and father decided to go for one, he bought an Alfa Laval four unit outfit. Of course it took a bit of getting used to the new way of milking, and did not help that a lot of the cows had "rough" udders not particularly suited to the new teat cups. Father got impressed by the herd of cows that the neighbour ran, these were pure bred pedigree Ayrshire's, most of his cows had nice small uniform well placed teats and compact udders that stretched forward under the cows belly. On looking at them from hand milking point of view, it would be finger and thumb milking, but this was the era of the milking machine and these cows looked as if they were designed for it.
When we moved farms up into the village the herd could be expanded, and along with his old neighbour they went up to Carlisle to the pedigree Ayrshire sale and between then bought a lorry load of incalf heifers, this would total I think about twelve, the cattle wagons were not as big as they are today. This they did for the following few years, one of the last loads that came down were polled, they had no horns, these were the first we had ever seen and they were bullied by the cows with horns.You may have seen old pictures of Ayrshire cattle, their horns curled up pitch fork style, and they knew how to use them.
To remedy this father spoke to his vet and he had all the cows horn cut off. As the cows were all tied by the neck in stalls it made it easy to restrain them, first the vet tied string tight round the base of the horn to act as a tourniquet and I cannot recall whether they were injected with pain killer. The instrument for cutting was a huge pair of shears with five foot handles, and the grip of three men to close them. A barnacle was put on the cows nose and a cord held by another man while the operation took place.
The local name for this gadget for holding a cow by the nose is Barnacle, the rough drawing above gives you an idea of how its opened, by drawing a spring up the shank to open the jaws, then place it in the nose and let the spring go, it been such a long time since I used ours that I cannot find it to photograph it. The ring at the top is for a rope, then you can hold an animal the same as you would hold a bull by its ring, I can tell you they don't appreciate it at all, and it has the benefit of taking their minds what you are actualy going to do at them.
They made rapid progress down the shed doing about twenty five cows on some cows the string had rubbed off letting the blood flow readily, squirting high into the rafters of the cowshed, it took a couple of hours for the vet to stem the flow from first one cow and then another.
When the calves were born, each calf's horns were cleaned with a fluid to remove any hint of grease and a type of glue applied called "colodian" this ceiled the horn bud and in effect dehorned the calf. It was a bit hit and miss some calves having one horn of in some cases both horns, it all depended on how clean the bud was when the colodian was applied, and how old the calves were, they had to be done in the first few days after birth. This went on for two or three years when a pair of dehorning irons were bought and the horn buds were burnt out ensuring that no horns were missed. These were heated on a blow lamp one being heated while one was in use, and the forerunner of the modern gas dehorning iron.
It was predominantly Ayrshire cows that made up the herd for the next twenty years, when the British Friesian cows with modern udders and higher yields and father started using a Friesian bull through artificial insemination on the Ayrshire cows. In the 1950's the Milk Marketing Board start the improvement of cow confirmation, by the use of Artificial Insemination, and monitoring the progeny born this way to provide proven bulls.
Over the following twenty years or more the udder and teat confirmation improved and where everyone had more than a cow or two with curled up toes and deformed feet, these were improved as well. Then in the following twenty years again saw the tremendous improvement in yields, and this coincided with new improved management techniques such as cubicles self feed silage and parlour milking, and a change over to Friesian cows.
Father ran a dairy herd
Father ran a dairy herd, of mainly Ayrshire cows,
These were housed traditionally, tied in stalls in rows,
Brought down for milking, had to be tied with a chain,
Each knew there own stall, a left and a right contain.
Cows were used to standing, to their own side of the stall,
They would part to let you in between when you call,
A bowl full of corn, and in with the bucket and stool,
Milked by hand while they're eating, was good job when it's cool.
He was one of the first to try, a new fangled milking machine,
A vacuum pipe was installed, new motor and pump had to be,
Four unit buckets and a spare, four cows milked nice and clean,
This was quicker by far, once the cows got used to routine.
Milk was cooled in the dairy, with water from the well,
The dairy collected it every day, had to be cool to sell,
The fridge was a copper heat exchanger hanging on the wall,
On top a Dee shaped receiving pan, fresh milk we poured it all.
Well water runs on the inside the fridge, milk run down outside,
Churns were filled for the dairy, to a measured mark inside,
Labelled with where it's to go, at one time went by train,
Now a lorry picks up the churns, from a churn stand on the lane.
Thirty more years he milked this way, in churns milk was poured,
Restricted now by the number of stalls, yields he did record,
Bulk tank came and a pipeline too, milk tanker every day,
This took Father to retirement, very modern to do it this way.
Countryman
Ayrshire cows always had a noticeably better butterfat level that could be seen in the milk bottles that it was sold in, Friesian cow on the other hand were often down to 3% fat, with the "blue water" up the bottom 97% of the bottle. Because father had just the odd Friesian cow in his herd, when asked "why keep a Friesian cow in a herd of Ayrshire" he always replied "we wash the shed down with her milk if the well runs dry".
Cheese - milk's leap towards immortality.
Clifton Fadiman (1904 - 1999)
Over the years you build up a clutch of embarrassing moments or events.
An early one I recall was with my relatively new bike (bicycle), when we were younger we always yearned for a new bike, but had to make do with an old one cobbled together from the good bits of other bikes, some of which were recovered from a pit hole at the side of the airfield, where the RAF dumped there unwanted or unusable bikes. I must say here that the pit was full of water, and we had to go with a rope and a home made grappling hook.
Some of the bikes we recovered had better wheels and sometimes a good chain and seat than what we were using, so our highbred bikes were so called cobbled together.
It was not till after I left school and started earning a wage that I persuaded my parents that I aught to splash out on a new bike. This they sanctioned and was now proud owner of a Raleigh bike with three speed hub gears. It was kept clean and not used on cattle droving, (where we over took galloping stock on our old bikes down the main road in order to turn them into the correct fields). It was not used to go scrambling through woods and fields and ditches, it was only used for serious cycling.
I had had this bike for two years or more, when I was asked to move a tractor and its silage trailer from our home farm to Church Farm at the other end of the village, so the bike was deposited into the back of the trailer and carefully laid on its side so as not to damage or scratch it. Of course it got forgotten and within a few minutes the trailer was filled with a full load of three tons of grass, and then tipped over an eight foot drop into the empty clamp. ( without me knowing , this had the effect of shortening the bike by about two foot) I was working the buck rake and ran backward at speed into the load to open it up then proceeded to stack the grass until this one buck rake full had part of a twisted wheel protruding from the grass, on further investigation it dawned on me what had happened. It was my New Bike, my pride and joy, one of the first purchases I had ever made. On recovering it, there was not a straight bar left all, it had been crumpled, the best demolition job I had ever done; and not done a better job of destruction in all the sixty years since. I hid it and dare not tell anyone. I was overcome with embarrassment, as the men, (four of them) and my brothers, working on the farm would rib me mercilessly.
It was quite a few years before I admitted as to what had happened to it, and it remained hidden most of that time, I cringed every time I thought about it.
This is how I would describe the sort of bikes our gang of village lads rode.
I had a Good Old Bike
Remember years ago, when I had a good old bike,
Its mud guards loose and rattled, a new one I would like,
The brakes were none existent, and rims they had a dent,
And wobbled as I rode it, and the wheels they were bent.
The seat was ripped and torn, springs were showing through,
A Saddle bag was hanging, off two little straps askew,
It had a carrier on the back, with long and snappy spring,
A clip to hold my jacket down, save tying it on with string.
Countryman
The Puncture Outfit
I had a puncture outfit, in a tin four inches long,
It had a pack of patches; they didn't look very strong,
A tube of tyre solution, there to glue the patches down,
Sand paper to roughen, and talc in glue it turned brown.
I often had a puncture, when I went over spike or thorn,
Turned it upside down to find, the tyre is well worn,
Off to fetch two table spoons, out of the kitchen draw,
Just to use as tyre leavers, see that mother never saw.
The tyre off the spoons they bent, muck and dirt abound,
Pulling out the inner tube, the hole it must be found,
Clean it up and roughen, peel the patch and stick right on,
Blow it up, only to find, we've only got another one.
Tyre mended blown up hard, now to have some fun,
Standing on the peddles hard, make the old hens run,
Up a hedge bank down a track, riding through the wood,
Good job it's just an old one, sliding through the mud.
Countryman
What breaks in a moment may take years to mend
Swedish proverb
The grass came out near black and toasted, but smelt sweet with the molasas, the cows liked it, but not much feed value left in it.
The first silage that we saw demonstrated was at our local Farming College in the 1950's, they had a concrete tower silo that was loaded with a tractor driven cutter blower. This was hand fed by a man with a pitch fork, and was blown up to the top of the tower and let to settle with its own weight. It was of coarse dangerous to enter a silo after it had stood for a few hours as the gasses would build up. A notice on the side of the tower pointed this out and only after the blower had been run for a while was it safe to enter. It had an external ladder shrouded in to get access to the hatches that are sealed as it was filled or opened as it was unloaded.
Unloading was a heavy job as it had all got to be dug out by hand, one good thing was that the grass had been chopped short much like the double chop forager produce today. It was then pitched out of the nearest hatch, to fall down the covered in ladder acting like a chute, it also needed a reliable man at the bottom to load the silage onto a cart or barrow, if it built up in the ladder chute the un-loader was trapped.
It made excellent silage as the height provided the weight to compress the forage, but was very labour intensive.
At home our first attempts at silage making were very crude to say the least, the silo was a welded mesh wire formed into a circle with sisal paper (tarred paper) pegged to the insides, when the first six foot had been filled another six foot ring was mounted on top and continued filling.
Mown grass was picked up from the field from windrows with a green crop loader, stacked on a trailer and unloaded by pitch fork into the wire mesh silo.
This shows the back end of a green crop loader, to read about our near disaster with a loader like this when it became blocked, click the Tag 'Safety' in the left column
When the two tier were filled and well trampled down, it was capped off with ground limestone.Needless to say it over heated; it was long ‘as cut grass', with added molasses, and was impossible get solid enough and exclude all the air. ( The grass came out near black and toasted, but smelt sweet with the molasas, the cows liked it, but not much feed value left in it.)
The next spring we had an earth scoop for the back of the tractor ( Fordson E27N) and dug a silage pit up in the middle of the grass field that were shut up for mowing. The grass was picked up with the buck rake from the windrows, in fact we had two, and taken directly onto the clamp, it was a lot more successful as we could compress it with the tractors as we went on. A couple of men were on the clamp with forks levelling the grass and adding the molasses. Again it was capped off with lime which when it got wet formed a good seal. The silage was dug out by hand, cutting six foot squares with a hay knife, and loaded by hand onto a trailer.
This is a hay knife, used to cut blocks of loose hay from a bay or a stack, it was more difficult to use in silage.
We had a couple of years doing it as described above, then we had a David Brown Hurrican Harvester , see video clip
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGaYzUVDQEo
These two machine in the video clip are only topping short grass and following each other, but in long mowing grass where one set of wheels are running in the crop, the next run had to be in the opposite direction to pick up the wheel mark. We had two three ton hydraulic tip trailers, and the local wheelwright made high sides and a swing from the top opening tailboard. The trailers had screw jacks and a block of wood to go under the foot and hitched and unhitched with a drawbar peg to the forage harvester and then to the towing tractor, the hydraulic was a screw connecter in those days.
A larger silage pit was dug back at home the trailers ferried up and down the road, by this time the additive was in the form of a powder to help neutralize the fermentation of the grass. The consolidation of the clamp was with the buck rake tractor and with the grass being short, flailed, and direct cut; it was heavy and green consolidated easily. Plastic sheeting was just coming in to cover the top and a layer of soil was spread to weigh it down, other things were tried for holding the sheet down, then eventually settle with car tyres then eventually plastic sheeting was put up the sides completed a better seal. At this stage it was still being loaded from the pit by hand.
It was not until we had cow cubicles that the silage clamp moved inside a purpose made shed that it became self feed, where by a barrier with a long spiked foot at the feed face was buffeted into the face each day for the cows to brows adlib. By this time, 10 years on, we had progressed to a Class Jaguar off set double chop forager and six ton trailers.
When I started farming on my own for a while I had a self fill continental type silage trailer which cut the crop as it went through the pickup reel, but it was pitifully slow at unloading and with only one trailer running up and down the lanes with each load it only lasted two years before I got rid and went back to flail harvesting.
Field Names of Seighford
Out in Britons countryside, looks like a patchwork quilt,
Of roads and lanes and field tracks, evolved and some were built,
They lead from towns and villages, and farms, map nailed on beam,
Each field a hedge and ditch and gate, watered by pond or stream.
The fields both large and small have names, you wouldn't dream exist,
Some relate to owner past, and others the type of land persists,
Red Rheine's is one of these mean fields, when ploughed reveals red clay,
Unless the frost into it gets, no seed bed though you work all day.
Best known one I've no doubt, behind Yews farm is Cumbers,
Ten houses built along the village, take that name and numbers,
Down by the ford is Mill Bank, four acre few trees by the brook,
The Hazel Graze another great name, nut bushes to make a crook.
Fosters by the railway line, named after a soul long gone,
And Pingles also down the Moor Lane, that defiantly is a mystery one,
Noons Birch is the most beautiful name, one that congers' you mind,
Public Field it was part of the land , run to the pub up back and behind.
Hoble End is another nice name, where two cottages stood in the fields,
No track did they only footpath, lonely place only a well and concealed,
Moss Common a field where the ditch, springs in the middle to pick up,
It is important that they are there, to water the ewes and the tup.
Ash Pits are three fields in a row, the Big the Middle and Little,
Ash trees are the obvious reason, and only one pit in the lot,
Hanging Bank is most sinister name, it's a cold north facing bank,
More research into this is what's needed, but all we've drawn is a blank
Lanes to the fields also have names, Moor Lane runs way from the ford,
Connecting with that is Love Lane, a grassy rut track half way Bridgeford,
The Oldfords Lane goes up to the farm, to Coton not a short cut by car,
And Smithy Lane runs way through houses, the shortest of all by far.
Moss Lane is one that runs eastwards, cow lane that it is can be seen,
Grass up the middle and is long, see cattle grazing fields so keen,
It has path that runs up it, and gates shut on each end,
The path is quite long; it comes out near Doxey on bend.
Countryman
Knowing trees, I understand the meaning of patience.
Knowing grass, I can appreciate persistence.
Unknown
At one time cattle were always driven to market; some times miles away in the local town, and nearly every house or cottage had a garden gate that could be shut as the cattle were herded by.
Then from the market they were herded again to the slaughter house (although there was often a slaughter house adjoining the sale yards) or out to whoever had purchased them if they were stores.
Father recalled the time when he was driving a few bullocks into market, and whilst walking down a side street in town, one bullock saw an open shop door, it decided to hop up the step and went into a shop. Being only a very small shop there was nowhere to turn round as the counter formed a passage where the customers stood. The old lady behind the county screamed with astonishment as the beast filled her shop, the bullock struggled to turn round to make an escape, in doing so it pushed the counter and all things behind it across and up to the goods on display along the back wall. This trapped the shop keeper; the bullock did what came natural and lifted its tail and plastered the counter and wall with muck then hopped out to continue its walk to market.
In our village there were seven herds of cows that all travelled and walked out to distant pastures each day and back for evening milking. The small holding with about twelve cows crossed the path of four herds, first he would if not careful he would travel along a hundred yards of road that the Yews farm cows walked, then pass across the path of the Green Farm yard where there cows emerged, then past Church Farm where both herds walk to the same lane, then at the ford those two herds crossed the path of Village Farm herd. Three herds walked down the same cow lane branching off into there respective fields. The two herds at the other end of the village crossed paths and were walking the same two hundred yard stretch of road, but in opposite directions, so a regular time for turning the cows out was most important.
For some reason the Church Farm cows were very late on being brought in for evening milking, and met with the smallholding cows coming out in the opposite direction down a narrow stretch of road near the ford. Forty two cows heading south and twelve cows heading north.
At the ford there is a narrow brick foot path bridge for pedestrians to cross, and the majority of cows preferred to go over the bridge as the bottom of the ford is very stony and hard on their feet. The forty cows (heading towards the church, Church Farm.)got strung out into a single line or as near as cows do, so the herd of twelve cows were walked steadily through in being tapped gently to remind then which direction they supposed to go and after about five minuets both herd continued on their way not having "lost" any to the other herd.
In the next village a farmer there always went to Ireland to purchase fifty or more store bullocks each spring, these came over on the ferry to Holly Head where they were loaded onto railway wagons.
Cattle wagon on the railway were couple next to the steam locomotive, the wagons being loose coupled they sprung and slapped the buffer as the brakes were applied and when power was put on to start pulling. This ricocheted down the length of the train, the smoothest ride was next to the engine.
His cattle were unloaded at the station yard in the village until it was closed by Dr, Beeching, (The government minister in charge of reforming the railways at that time, he cut off many branch lines and closed many local stations) then they had to unload further down the line at the station in town.
From there they were walked about six miles back to his farm, by this time they were tired and hungry from the journey, so could be seen snatching grass as they passed through our village stopping for five minuets at the ford to water them.
So cattle droving did happen in England, but in a quite minuscule way compared to cattle drives over the pond.
Cattle on the Railway Line.
1960 The trains were nearly all pulled by diesels a few goods trains were still steam. Two trains had already stopped from north and two from south, everyone stuck their heads out of the carriage windows to see what had halted there journey. The cattle were recovered from the opposite embankment between the four locomotives.
One morning while milking cows, a phone call came from railway man,
It was the Bridgeford signal box, reported cattle onto line had ran,
He put his signals onto caution, don't worry drivers on "visual", will run
We race off down the Moor Lane, to cattle grazing in the morning sun.
Two trains they had already halted, and two more rolling to a stop,
They left a gap through which to drive, cattle back to embankment top,
Four *lengthsmen helped and a driver, and hundreds of people watched,
Three express trains and one commuter, why their journey scotched.
The cattle hopped cross four main lines, and back into the field,
Embankment fire had burned a post; rail fell down a gap revealed,
We thanked the drivers and local men, for their quick advance,
Fast line trains do speed at seventy, cattle wouldn't stand a chance.
*Lengthsmen; railway workers, looked after length of track, usually 3-4 miles per group of six
I must say that this is a very busy stretch of line,and is the main London to Scotland main line, the Royal Scot(1950's) steamed past at full speed very day at about three o'clock and back to return to London in the early hours of the morning . Many of the steam express trains were pulled by named engines.
(Of the parallels between the railways and the church) Both had there heyday in the mid-nineteenth century, both own a great deal of Gothic-style architecture which is expensive to maintain, both are regularly assailed by critics, and both are firmly convinced that they are the best means of getting man to his ultimate destination
Reverend W. Awdry (1911-1997)
The lights are up, turkey bought, and the cards are coming in,
Holly round the mantle shelf, decorations hung within,
For all the children presents now, dunt know where to start,
Buying now on line you can, money from ya card impart,
Each passing year they got older, laptop n' all gizmos' need,
Computer games and telephones, with built in camera plead,
Be glad now when its come and gone, good food good cheer n all,
Its just another day in life, as out of bed I crawl,
Stock to look and count and feed, all me life the same,
Exiting for the kids so young, for me excitements' getting tame,
So its from the misses and me, all round the world relayed,
We wish you Happy Christmas, and a Happy new decade.
Owd Fred & Eileen
In the early 1950's we had one of the foggiest days I can remember, it was still air with a complete blanket of fog across the whole country. In them days and particularly in November/ December time, heating and cooking in the houses and cottages was all done with coal, and from what I remember in our small village all the fires lit in a morning around the same time with a plume of dark smoke emitting from every chimney pot.
On this one morning, (though it lasted from the day before for three days) with no wind and thick fog, it kept the smoke down, it hung around all day and the next main stoking of the fires was around four o'clock, and another intense belching of smoke came from the chimneys.
This produced what was termed smog, and replicated in towns and cities all over the country, with factories and power stations adding to the situation.In London they were holding the Smithfield Fat Stock Show and two or three head of cattle died from the breathing in the polluted London air.
On this particular day we went to school on the local service bus, it crept and almost felt its way along the five miles to the school. Around lunch time the powers that be realised the fog/smog was not going to lift, and sent all us kids home from school. However the fog was so thick all the busses had been taken off the road and it was left for us to walk home.
As the school was situated on the opposite side of town to our village, we had to walk through the town centre. The main street is about forty feet wide including the footpaths either side, and when half way across the road (or if we had stopped in the centre of the road) you could not see any kerb or buildings, just thick smog.
There were six or seven of us, and in order to keep together and not get lost, we kept on talking and shouting to each other.It was only because we were familiar with the road that we found our way home, following the different land marks such as gates and hedges, foot paths and buildings, farms and cottages. It was even too dangerous to cycle. The roads closed down to all traffic, nothing moved at all.
That smog that year was the turning point when the government started to bring in the smokeless fuels that could be burnt in open fires, and in stoves for cooking, within a few years all built up areas and towns became smokeless. Now we only seem to get at most a thick mist, the fog of old used to come in like a blanket, in most hollows in the roads you would hit a thick wall of fog, shoot through it, and out the other side still going the same speed, then having more cars on the roads they began to pile up at high speed in multiple crashes the worst ones on the early motorways.
Most trains stopped running, the London Scotland main line runs through our farm, and the signal man, in foggy situations had a lengths man on call, with a button in the signal box and a wire to a bell in the mans bedroom to be able to call for assistance. On instruction from the signal man detonators were placed on the line (in pairs in case one failed) to tell the steam engine driver all clear, no detonator they had to stop. The railway line follows the land close to the river and fog always seemed to start in those low areas, so the railway signals were the first things hidden from the loco drivers.
In our present climate, where it seems we have global warming, I think it has something to do with the vast amount of oil and gas being extracted from the ground and burnt. Only sixty years ago I remember waking up in the morning with frost and ice on the inside of our bedroom window, and in the same house now where we used to burnt around three ton of coal a year plus logs, now it is heated with fourteen hundred gallon of heating oil.
With that sort of turn around in heating replicated in every house and offices in the land, heat is dispersed, or should I say leaked from doors and windows no matter how well insulated, to affect the country as a whole. Then there is the traffic on the roads probably increased a hundred fold, all contributing to the general rise in temperature
In cars we have windscreen heaters to keep them from misting up, and the heat given off around houses must have the same effect on the fog that we might otherwise have.
No wonder that our country has a rise in average temperatures, given the density of the population, and the amount of fuel burnt, out in Kansas USA it's the other way round, with lower than normal seasonal temperatures.
So who says its not man made.
Mothers Tea Cosy
Mother had a tea cosy, to keep the tea pot warm,
Used it for other things, that's not quite the norm,
It was all home knit, out of thick unravelled wool,
From warn out jumper unpicked, so curly was the wool.
On cold days she would ware it, outside in a storm,
Already warm and hot, from keeping tea pot warm,
Feeding hens or getting coal in, always pulled it on,
Hair stuck out the holes, where handle n spout were from.
Countryman
When the goose honks high, fair weather; when the goose honks low foul weather.
Proverb quotes
Each stall holds a pair of cows, left and right they learn,
Once they know their own side, one word n' they discern,
The Cow Stall gave way gradually to the cow cubicle starting around 1960, when the milking parlour changed milking for ever.
In the village each of the nine farms had a dairy herd, ranging from eleven cows on the small holding up to just over fifty cows one the larger farms. All the cows were tied up by the neck in stalls, and every cow knew its own place in the byre. The stalls were arranged in pairs with a left and a right hand tie up, the cows got used to which side to stand, it was almost impossible to persuade a cow to stand on a different side once trained to its particular side. If a cow was bought in from another herd, we always had a few single stalls at the end of the different sheds where we could tie up on either side, to accommodate and match the left or right hand cows.
In the early days, in winter cows were let out for exercise after morning milking, often to brows the kale that was cut and put out on an old turf near to the buildings. While out the stalls could be cleaned and bedded and the muck wheel barrowed out to the midden.
Hay which was loose (no bales) was put into every stall for them to come back in to, and later in the 1960's sugar beet pulp first became popular that was put into every trough from a feed barrow a bucket full per cow.
We still have a small shed that has three double cow stalls, the stalls are oak planks nailed to oak upright and two staves the same thickness forward to the front of the stall. The floor of each stall is bricks, back to a concrete kerb at the back edge of the stall, and a blue brick manger at the front. The treadle water bowl for each pair was clearly added to this set up, in more recent years. Originally cattle were looses out for water to a large trough in the middle of the yard fed by gravity from a spring in the wood up the back fields.
There is a loft above with holes in the floor where hay was stored and stuffed down into the feed passage in front of the stalls (Fodder bing as we called it locally). Another addition to the shed was the vacuum pipe along above the cows for the milking machine when they first came in.
The Cow Chain
At one time cows were all tied up, in stalls to milk and feed,
Each one knew its own place, not much room indeed,
When young they didn't like it, but soon learned where to go,
Twice every day it was for them, walking too and fro.
Out to daytime pastures, to distant fields to graze,
Back again for milking on long fine summer days,
Walk into their own shed, and finding their own stall,
Standing there to be chained, got to chain them all.
Each stall holds a pair of cows, left and right they learn,
Once they know their own side, one word n' they discern,
"Come over" spoken to them, they know your coming through,
The pair will part, n' chain them up, n' stand their cud to chew.
A scoop of corn while milking, then wait till milked the lot,
Loosed off the chains they wander, out to pasture we allot,
Clean the sheds and clean the stalls, till milking comes again,
To tie them up you always need, good strong shiny chain.
Countryman
Right now there is only two herds of cows in the village, and just about the same number of cows as what there was when there was nine herds. And where there would be around fifteen people involved in milking; it is only one man per herd (two herds) who do the milking now.
It is not necessarily those lands which are most fertile or most favoured in climate that seem to me the happiest, but those in which a long struggle of adaption between man and his environment has brought out the best quality in both.
T S Elliot (1888 - 1965)
Have you had a close study of Julian's a short 2 minute video to demonstrate to you all the key features of FWi. If you have , run it through again and stop it on the 54th 55th and 56th second, where the straw in the field of wheat parts.
Its Owd Fred's blog about his book, (Click the tag "Book" )a compilation of farming poems many of which you may have seen on these pages.
It brings back memories to the older generations who read it, but many of the older generation do not use a computer, this is a chance to buy that Christmas gift, two hundred pages of real life tales all told in verse, for those who appreciated and in some cases suffered as children, the way of life during and just after world war two.
If you are interested send me, Fretaw, (Owd Fred) an email or private message for more details, it's all going for charity.
Thanks to all who have been following my blog, it has astounded me the total numbers that have been following my ramblings
Owd Fred
I'm looking for a bit of metal, the size ta mend a gate,
Seen some in the scrap ruck, but I can't locate,
Am I the only one to have a scrap ruck, one that you go to every time you have a breakage, for a piece of metal, or to add another lump of metal to it.
The balance is usually on the "add" side, and as there is more than one ruck, it does not look so untidy, until you look round the next corner.
The Scrap Ruck
I got a pile of scrap iron, and it builds up real fast,
And another round the corner, where I dropped it last,
I save it just in case, nothings ever chucked away,
Piles of it every where, It might come in one day.
Broken bits of tractor, and its off cut bits of steel,
Some is thick and some is thin, and some a bit of wheel,
Angle iron in six foot lengths, some point was a bed,
Other bits chucked into the rucks, some still painted red.
Nettles growing through it, and it makes a nesting site,
For rats and mice and vermin, who are only out at night,
Disturbed they run like mad, get away from you or me,
And where do they head for, their scrap ruck home with glee.
I'm looking for a bit of metal, the size ta mend a gate,
Seen some in the scrap ruck, but I can't locate,
Remember when I chucked it, don't know which pile it's in,
Turn each pile over and see, praps neath that pile of tin.
It's rusting in the winter, when the snow and rain soaks in,
It's rusty and it's flaking, and its no use for welding,
Don't know why I saved it, cus the price of scraps sky high,
Have to have a clear out, home for rats and mice deny.
Countryman
Every now and them I get a rush of blood to the ed, and start to think I will tidy things up a bit. This usually amounts to a big hammer and a fist full of six inch nails hammered into the workshop wall, to hang tools and spare parts and grinding discs and the like.
One of the longest serving six inch nails has only ever held one thing for the last thirty years, and that is mothers old Electrolux Hoover. Back when we were kids she used to dry our hair with it (the pipe would screw on the other end and after a few minuets it was warm air coming out). I had kept it for sentimental reasons, and bring it off its nail every time we sweep the kitchen chimney, it still works and still had a good vacuum, but now resembles a rusty ship wreck at sea, and the nail rusting along with it. When the nail finally gives way the dust bin will be there for it to drop right in.
Then at one time I decided that some brackets on the wall. welded in my notably lumpy welding ( pigeon siht welding they call it round here) and nailed it up high with three shelves so to speak. It worked out well when it was first loaded and the floor area clear, then when repairing an emergency, you never have time to stack the half used metal back on the rack.
I Made me sen a Bracket
I made me sen a bracket, to hang my useful metal on,
All the bits and pieces, that, can get lost and gone,
All along the back wall, it will look so neat and clean,
And keep my workshop tidy, then find a new routine.
But you know what its like, when your always in a rush,
Ya cut a bit of metal off and into the rack you push,
Or sling the metal back inside, doesn't reach the rack,
It piles up inside the shed, till ya shins ya crack.
So the rack its owldin nothin, don't why I put it thee're,
Metal that I'm looking for, is under the pile somewhee're,
Spreading out all around the floor, no room ta walk about,
A scrap ruck outsides what I want, of which can't do without.
Countryman
Quote
Guilt upon conscience, like rust upon iron, both defiles and consumes it, gnawing and creeping into it, as that does which at last eats out the very heart and substance of the metal.
South.
Clear your desk of backlogs, pay us up to date,
Let us get on with work, which is inside our own gate.
Forms get ever longer and more complicated and more and thicker booklets to explain how to proceed, all in thicker almost glossy paper. The offices are massive and palatial, with no cost spared, the computers are up to date but not up to the mark, and staff seems demoralised and not motivated.
Who am I talking about, the RPA.
We are told to conserve energy save costs, told to cut back on inputs, told to cut back on labour, told to modernise and get computer literate, and were told it will save on paper if its all done on line but even more explanation booklets drop through the door in ever bigger piles to tell us how to do that.
Where will it end, even the BCMS computers not up to scratch right at the moment, perhaps teething trouble on the change over from the old site, but then it sounds as I am making excuses for them.
Another session of re-mapping and re- numbering of fields, all done from satellite observations, often mistaking boundaries, with mistakes again to be corrected. Some have been allocated a fields way out in the North Sea, and others a field located two counties away, such is the chaos that's called RPA and DEFRA.
Fields increasing in size by 0.005 Ha or decreasing by some similar ridiculously small areas, all balancing out to around the same total farm hectareage as before they started. Cost of the exercise, tremendous, benefit to the farm and country minimal, all done to make those in the ivory towers feel that they are in charge.
Forms to Fill to Farm
Come on Mr Benn get your offices sorted out,
Build one of straw this time; build one that's not so stout,
Environmentally friendly, insulation without compare,
Can be fed into its own boiler, when refurbishment is there,
Do it Mr Benn, do it for mankind,
Renewable renewals grown on our own land you can find,
Help us to help you, cooperation to cut back,
All those overheads you inherit, give some of them the sack.
A dedicated person to deal with our own claim form,
Except when they're on holiday or off sick n' can't perform,
Trust us Mr Benn, trust us with your cheque book,
Get the money where it belongs, mistake you later look.
Could do without all these forms, that we're filling in,
One a mistake and it goes, bottom of the bin,
Ring to find out information, five options listen to,
Then they ask for ya SBI, nine digits read back to you,
Could do without printouts, that are misleading and all wrong,
Whole lines that are missing, a field it does belong,
Bar codes to stick on every paper, that you have to send,
Sketch maps for part fields, got to sign and amend.
There's numbers for every thing, for this that and tuther,
Field numbers map numbers, farm references to cover,
SBI and there's IACS, vendor as well,
PI and a Trader, and Stewardship numbers to tell. ( thats nine numbers up to here)
A blend of every complication, regularly emits,
Consistency is very rare, though updating, it exists,
So come on Mr Benn, get your office sorted out,
Try to give us confidence, n' see what your about.
Clear your desk of backlogs, pay us up to date,
Let us get on with work, which is inside our own gate,
Food and fuel getting short, let us fill the empty plate,
Be proud of what were doing, before more of us vacate.
Countryman
Quote
First I do not sit down at my desk to put into verse something that is already clear in my mind. If it were clear in my mind, I should have no incentive or need to write about it. We do not write in order to be understood, we write in order to understand.
Robert Cecil Day Lewis
Old nuts and bolts of any size, they build up in the shed,
But finding one the right size, too thick too short the thread,
Over the years you pick up most skills needed to run the maintenance of your farm, the obvious one is laying concrete, and brick or block laying. Before ready mix came about loads of sand and gravel came in ten ton loads and cement in one cwt (50KG) paper sacks. The mixer was the old traditional one with a Petter or Lister petrol engine, and later diesel engines.
Brick laying needed a lot of practice and got a lot easier with the advent of concrete blocks, depending on the size, it was the same as laying twelve bricks at a time
Another one is plumbing, although that has changed beyond recognition from my early days when it was all on galvanized pipe, with the cutting to length then threading the pipe ends, applying plumbers paste and winding in the hemp wool, tightening up the elbow or what ever fitting was needed.
Nowadays its all plastic piping and the joints are push fit or ones that are tightened by hand, of coarse the copper pipes are almost as easy and are reserved for use in the house or dairy, even some of that can be replaced by plastic push fit connecters and tees and elbows.
Roofing got a lot quicker when asbestos corrugated sheet came in replacing the need for a steeper tiled roof, with less supporting timber as well. Then the spouting and guttering now all in plastic, almost ever lasting, although it needs a lot closer brackets and has a tendency to sag and then over flow at the slightest bit of bird crap that builds up.
Urgent building jobs always seem to want to be done when the weathers cold or wet, the same with mending a burst pipe or joint, invariable it happens during frost and snow and always in the muckiest corner of the field or shed when its been leaking for some time. Ball valves loose the cover and bored stock play with it until the stem bleaks or bends.
Carpentry is nearly always six inch nail jobs as smaller nails get lost too easily, my father liked his joinery and made many thing over his lifetime from toys at Christmas for us kids to a trailer to take his pigs and calves to market and many other thing about the farm.
The old finger bar mowers had wooden connecting rods and wooden swath boards that needed replacing from time to time, wheel barrows needed new sides and legs as the rotted out. Farm carts and wagons had running repairs, and when the tractors came in they were all were converted to a single short wooden drawbar to replace the shafts.
After he retired he made four grandfather clocks, and four farmhouse kitchen tables to fit there respective kitchens, as well as an assortment of stools and chairs and a welsh dresser. Most of his timber was very old oak that he had found about the farm over the years and saved, a certain amount of ash, elm and yew timber used for specific
Father Extended his Garage
This was when they retired to a house in Bridgeford.
The bulk of his timber stock was stored back at the farms.
Father extended his garage, called it, his ‘workshop',
So keenly he worked in there, only for meals would he stop,
In it he had all his tools, including a new lathe and a saw,
His plans for what he is making, on a bit of cardboard he'd draw.
For timber he'd look round the farm, old elm and ash and oak,
If it's useful for what he wants, into the roof if his garage he'd poke,
Half ton he stored this way, garage not designed for this,
But the timber dried out, and danger of collapse he dismiss.
For ten or more years he worked in there, no spare time had he,
Made tables and chairs and clocks, these thing he made ably,
It wasn't one in his shed, but usually four of each item he made,
Finished and stained and polished, to his high standard he'd grade.
Got bad on his legs with age, and a stool to work from he put,
Not safe to use his machines, this it kerbed his workshop output,
The things that he made, he made to last, generations to enjoy,
Solid as if to last for ever, all those skills he did employ.
Countryman
Most of the jobs mentioned above we learned from him but welding came in a bit late for father to take up, however for me, with thirty years of practice on the electric welder, with good metal, and welding with the job flat on the bench or on the ground, I can make a joint that will hold, but if on the slightest of slope or vertical welding I am reliably told its "Pigeon Sh1t" welding. The more you try to strengthen the joint the lumpier it gets hence the name.
Spanners were all whitworth and then when Fordson tractors came over they brought the AF fine threads and a completely different set of spanner sizes, then more recently the metric spanners have taken over with another set of sizes. So most of my old whitworth spanners have dwindled away till now fifty years on only a few remain. If your anything like me nothing gets thrown away, hence the boxes beneath the bench full of a wide assortment of spanners, some specific to a particular machines. The old tractors came with a set of wheel spanners, plug spanners, and a general set to fit all nuts on that tractor. Ploughs had spanners and cultivators; I think the only thing in those days, without a spanner, was the set of chain harrows.
Farmers Skills know no Bounds
Over the years you learn most skills, enough to get ya by,
Welding plumbing laying bricks, ya mind ya must apply,
Laying concrete with a slope, grids and drains dig in,
Mend the roofs and spouting, protect the stock within.
A builders job is in his hands, a trowel and shovel need,
Pegs and line and spirit level, practice now for speed,
Anyone can do the job, an eye for accuracy to lay,
Bricks and blocks to make a wall, mistakes are on display.
Plumbing now with plastic pipes, and easy joints push fit,
Gone are the old iron pipes, a lot of work admit,
Cut with hacksaw threads to cut, paste and hemp wound on,
Elbows tees and feral joints, with pipe wrench now all gone.
A breakdown now, repair with weld, another job to learn,
Clean the rust off on the joint, with weld rod at angle burn,
Steady flow and curled up ash, or that is how should be,
Mine resembles pigeon sh1t, in lumps and holes for me.
Old nuts and bolts of any size, they build up in the shed,
But finding one the right size, too thick too short the thread,
When ones found that's okay, but now you need a pair,
Then the jobs impossible, enough to mek ya sware.
Cotter pins they're soft and bend, can never get them out,
Top and tail it breaks off, in hole with rust we clout,
The right size nail comes handy, tail end bent round double,
Get you moving, harvest time, and gets you out of trouble.
Farmer's skills know no bounds, most things he will tackle,
Jack of all trades master of none, but saves a lot of hassle,
Do the job to how he likes, no one to tell that's wrong,
Confidence in home made skills, built and made real strong.
Countryman
Computers force us into creating with our minds and prevent us from making things with our hands. They dull the skills we use in everyday life.
Clifford Stoll (1955)
To catch them by the chin and ear, back them in the crate,
Kicking, jumping, bellowing, mother cow's rattling at the gate.
From mid June we started feeding corn in a creep feeder for the suckler calves, it takes quite a while for them to start to find their way in, and its quite easy for them wonder in while they're still small. During August they had started to take a regular feed each day and I had to replenish with pellets each week.
The upper rail on the entrance was now just rubbing their backs, and so keen that they duck to get at the feed. Its now October and they are bending their legs a little as well as ducking and turn round to come out the same.
Last week we let the cattle onto some mowing meadows on the peat ground, which meant the calves were three fields away from the feeder, with the grass being so fresh and lush from the aftermath, no calves came back to the feeder for almost a week.
This morning I went down to count the cattle, and as they had taken most of the grass off those peat meadows, they had come back over night to the main cow pasture where the creep feeder is situated. The calves must have all decided to catch up on the feed they has missed, and I found five big calves wedged in very comfortably, side by side as if they were in a milking parlour, there are five openings at the front, but the top rail on the entrance was acting as a rump rail, and as they could not turn round they could not get out. By the look of the paddle of muck and wee under their back feet they had been in most of the night. I did try to lead ones tail under the rump rail to see if it would duck and back out, if one was out the others could turn round and all would be well. On touch the nearest ones tail it jumped and lashed out with its back feet, so for my safety and the calves, I abandoned that idea.
Only one thing to do was to put the tines of the fore end loader under one end of the creep, and lift it well up to release them. As big as what the calves are the mothers were keen to see where their calves were, and all five latched onto their respective mothers for milk.
Half of our calves have been weaned two weeks ago, I went through the herd and made a note some time back, of the cows numbers who were not quite so fit, and a note of all the first calf heifers numbers, then came into the office and made a list of their calves.
This is weaning a month earlier than I have ever done, but the calves were all used to eating hard food from the creep. In my view this should allow the cows to regain some weight while we still have grass and maize stubbles to brows. On the other hand, the other half of the cows, still with calves, they are good and fit, and some almost in blubby fat condition. I intend to leave the calves on them for another couple of months, by which time they may have pulled the mothers down a bit. That reminds me I must raise or unbolt the top rail from the creep which is now acting as a rump rail.
Dehorning Calves every Year
Dehorning calves every year, an Angus bull must get,
Breed them so they have none, save lots of work you bet,
To catch them by the chin and ear, back them in the crate,
Kicking, jumping, bellowing, mother cow's rattling at the gate.
Calf thinks "I'll shake them off; I'll bite his thumb real hard,
Shout and bellow for me mum, she'll chase them out the yard,
They've got me head its in a clamp, a needles in me ed,
A red hot iron coming close, mid smoke, and nothings said".
Later in life they're' dangerous, horns grow long and sharp,
Job to get them in the crush, but who are we to carp,
Dehorned as youngsters it is the best, pain for half an hour,
Makes life much easier, for stock and those in power.
Countryman
The lion and the calf shall lie down together, but the calf won't get much sleep.
Woody Allen (1935 - )
Years ago, perhaps thirty years ago, when I took over another block of fields on the estate, there was one mysterious little meadow of about two acres. The land and fields surrounding it are light land overlying gravel and deeper down pure sand, but it lay in a hollow, dead flat and with a ditch all down the South side. It had always been a permanent pasture with a tendency to grow rushes and in winter very wet and it poached.
The ditch running its length was over grown and very rarely ever been cleaned out (perhaps because in my generation and mechanisation era we were reluctant to use spades) so had a tendency to over flow in winter, this is why it was so wet. The ditch had a wide catchment area which included carrying storm water from the road drains of a quarter of a mile, so when it rained hard it was a fast flowing ditch.
The council and the estate got together to remedy this ditch, as it was causing the road to flood, so they drew up a scheme to pipe it all the way through four of my fields to where it met the wet peaty ditches that were maintained by the river board.
This little meadow was transformed into quite a dry meadow and as it had been mown every summer for centuries, or so it seemed, it had very little fencing so it was decided to fill in the old ditch and the post and wire fence removed, and it was merged with the next field, an arable field.
We started ploughing across the main field and at the end of every run we ploughed down into this little old meadow. It stalled the tractor and had to go down about two gears, the tractor reared as the plough got dug into a seam of heavy clay. There was about four inches of black silt on top, for at some point in time it must have been a man made shallow pool, (perhaps a flight pool for ducks as the estate had keepers and a shoot) all the clay must have been carted there by horse and cart and levelled and spread in a foot deep layer.
All round the estate on every farm a proportion of the land was heavy land on top of red marl and in all those field are marl pits, this I was told was dug up and spread out on top of arable and pasture land in spade full's or in clay lumps to chillate (if that's the right word)
In other words it was left for the frost to break it down into a crumbly hump that could be chain harrowed and spread evenly all over the field the following spring.
In the case of this little meadow it was a thick twelve inch layer of marl that was puddle down when there was plenty of water flowing in winter and allowed to form a pool.
It took about five years before the clay got properly mixed with subsoil and the silt, and that area did not have fertilizer for quite a number of years other wise the corn would go flat
In years gone by a man would no doubt have spent half the winter digging and maintaining that ditch by hand, but as the farms became mechanised so fewer men were about farms.
Then in the late 1950's or there abouts, J C Bamford invented a digger on the back of a tractor, ( twenty miles from here) and the JCB has evolved to the enormous business that it is. Now all my ditches are maintained as necessary, without too much cost and effort by a friend of mine with his JCB
Introducing Mr Roy Halden, JCB or is it CBE
Roy he drives a JCB, it is his full time job,
Works about locally, to earn an onest bob,
On the spot the time he says, reliable as he can be,
Round the farms and building sites, always you can see.
Digging out or trenching, or foundations good and straight,
Never leaves a mess behind, no need for him a mate,
Grading out hardcore, to level a brand new drive,
Perfection's what he aims for, not the nine to five.
Always takes three buckets, for all the jobs he does,
He swaps them automatically, without even a pause,
Tease them round to be in line, click they're well fixed on,
Carries them every where he goes, so well known this mon.
His front bucket does many jobs; it has a ‘jaw' that opens,
It can grab and grip things, dozer blade beneath as options,
A pair of fork lift tines fold over, moving pallets about,
For all these various jobs he does, just give him a shout.
His machine's maintained and clean, when he's off to work,
But some jobs they're down right dirty, these he doesn't shirk,
Tackle almost any job, that he's asked to do,
Brings his bag of snappin, and a flask that holds his brew.
Best known digger man in these parts, as he goes shooting by,
A wave and a big broad smile from him, in his cab so high,
Off to his next appointment, just a regular of his,
So often he is recommended, with his JCB he's a whiz.
Countryman
Its better for civilization to be going down the drain than to be coming up it
Henry Allen
Mother always told us, to wash behind our ears,
Neck and earhole what she called it, in our early years,
The only soap that we had at home as kids was the old green square tablet of carbolic soap, it came in double length pieces with a groove across the middle to either break or cut into two. Mother had a bar of soap of her own that was scented, but she kept it hidden. As the carbolic soap was warn down with use almost too small to use and then was put in a big glass jar with a bit of water. This melted it down to a jelly, and over a period of time it built up, then on a washing day all or some if it was tipped into the dolly tub, or later into the new washing machine.
It was used on our hair as shampoo, and in the bath, if soap was needed it was carbolic, and always when we had our ‘neck and earole' wash.
I Remember the Neck and Earhole Wash
Mother always told us, to wash behind our ears,
Neck and earhole what she called it, in our early years,
This is where she always looked, for grime not yet reached,
It'll end up on the pillow, that is why she always preached.
At the sink with bar of carbolic, soap to those don't know,
Lather on your hands and flannel, sleeves rolled to the elbow,
Watched that we made good job, never did she miss,
Must admit it felt so fresh, we went to sleep in bliss.
Countryman
Father was a dab hand at cutting our hair, but it was not something we ever looked forward to, particularly if he was tired from a hard days work. We had a high stool that the youngest of us sat on at the table, this was what he used while cutting our hair.
The hair clipper were hand operated, the head looked like small sheep shears ( cutter and comb ), and to operate the blades were two handles at the back like miniature scythe handles with knobs half way up to stop his fingers sliding while working them.
Sheep clippers probably work at a few hundred shithers a minuet,these at there fastest would be about fifty or sixty, or how ever fast they could be squose and released with his fist. The other equation in this job was how fast they were pushed up the back of your neck, too fast and its pulled out some of ya hair instead of cutting, and him thinking he was getting on with the job.
He nearly always started with the youngest, the one who would not keep still, so with a free hand would be firmly gripping his chin and face while he cut up the back with the clippers. His patience was often a little frayed by the next one, and so on until the last one had to bite his lip and hold tight to the chair as the clippers raced up for the short back and side job that he did.
I must say he was very good at hair cutting, but he never did anyone else's hair, he did it with pride in his job, if it's a furrow or drilling wheat it had to be straight, if it was hedge laying or thatching his hay or corn stacks they had to be well done and tidy, and so it was with hair cutting. (Even if it was sometimes done in a hurry)
I Remember father Cutting our Hair
It would be around 1946 we went to Seighford school
At the beginning of every, new school term,
Father said with long hair, you'll not learn,
So out with his scissors and comb and clipper,
And lifted us into the old high chair, start with the nipper.
Clippers are worked, by squeezing the handle,
Must be worked at a speed, more than an amble,
He oils them as if, he were clipping the sheep,
And expects us to sit there, without a peep.
He started with clippers, on back of your neck,
And clipped up to where, the cap fitted by heck
Pushing them up faster, than he was clipping,
Pulling your hair by the root, now started blarting. ( a local word for crying)
When he had finished, around sides and ears,
Quake as the comb and scissors appear.
Combing it back, to make it stand up,
And do it again, as if to warm-up,
Gauging the length, one finger neeth comb,
Cut off all sticks through, all over your dome.
Stand back to see if, it's even all round,
Snip to the lock that he missed, falls to ground.
No time for a cloth, round the shoulder or mirror,
Next one he lifts into chair, his turn to quiver,
Only five minuets it takes, as he sweats,
As with sheep, more you do, faster he gets.
The hair cut we had, when we now look back,
Was very much the same, as his corn stack,
Thatched on the top, trimmed up the side,
Old habits' never die, he does it with pride.
Countyman
It's not white hair that engenders wisdom.
Menander (342 - 292 BC)
Sometimes he drove his car on business, a coffin to deliver,
It had a rack across the back, black cloth draped to cover,
Eric was a quiet man, one who never got into a fluster, nothing troubled him, and did not let others trouble him. He always "wore" his pipe and seldom saw him without it, and had his peak cap square on his head if anything tipped forward over his eyes.
Eric took over the farm from his father; a brother ran the local garage or Filling station as they were then called, and he also charged up batteries, the accumulators that you had to have to power the big old wireless, now called radio. Another brother was an estate agent selling property.
He always told the story of him going to his old barber in town, the barber he had gone to for years, and it turned out his barber had just acquired his first electric clippers. Eric got settled in the chair and the gown put round his shoulders, and the barber picked up the new clippers. This was okay but the barber was worse for ware for having had a little too much to drink at lunch time.
He bent Eric's head down forward, put the clippers to the back of Eric's neck, and clipped up the back of his head and right over to the front (like a Mohican cut in reverse). At this Eric jumped up out of his chair, paid the barber, and proceeded with his cap firmly pulled on ( to hide the stripe over his head) to another barber in town to sort out his hair cut. I would imagine he would be highly embarrassed trying to explain what had happened and often wondered if anyone was in the second shop when he went in.
Eric Bennion ( 1900 - 1978 or there abouts)
Eric farmed at Cooksland Hall Farm, next to Seighford Hall,
Walked his cows to pasture, through the Lea Gate as I recall,
In that field was a sports field, with iron rails fenced in,
From the hall played cricket, Eric mowed it for hay, there in,
Nothing ever flustered Eric, he never got in a spin,
His ever smiling eyes tell you, don't worry again begin,
Wore his cap square on his head, and S shaped pipe he chewed,
A waist coat with a thumb he lodged, to problems he allude.
He stands to talk feet slight apart, knees a slight of bend,
Fills his pipe and lights, puffs his smoke while talking to a friend,
Shortish man of stocky build, his boots they're loosely tied,
Trousers match the waist coat, old suit to work applied.
He had a big old car, that he drove so stately past,
His wife could not drive it, but she had a sister Allis,
She had learned to drive OK, and took them all to mass,
Eric got out the chauffeur's job, all he said was "pass".
Eric had a daughter, who went with her mother and aunts,
They all went all over the place, Elizabeth to dad she cants,
Very young just started school, told her dad what happened,
"Allis ditched the car dad", turf and soil beneath she becond.
Sometimes he drove his car on business, a coffin to deliver,
It had a rack across the back, black cloth draped to cover,
Collected from the wheelwrights shop, Jim Clark had just made,
Lined and ready for occupant, to house few days displayed.
In war time we had rationing, can't sell black market then,
Police were on the watch out keen, contraband sold by men,
Half a pig fit unlined coffin, moved it to the next village,
Past the local bobby who, saw a coffin, paid it homage.
This they had so often done, so a pig they wouldn't suspect,
Then had to go be lined and late, to diseased and pay respect,
Both had black caps, and both smoked a pipe,
Salute the law when driving past on a winter's night.
Reg Flower worked for him, the Fergy tractor drove,
Eric drove the shires, behind them he always strode,
Doing all the steady jobs, talking while they work,
Feeding after toil, then back to graze into evening's murk.
Eric bought a hunting horse, to follow the local hunt,
It grazed his pastures with the cows, with halter he affront,
Had rested all the summer long, fresh and keen was he,
Took two of them control at first, to stable they agree.
On with the bridle and the saddle, but still he played them up,
Took him to a ploughed field, where Eric mounted set to gallop,
Horses feet they sank in deep, made it heavy going,
Soon tired and calmed down now, for hunting now needs shoeing.
Eric never got round to retiring, but past the age he was,
Died in harness so to speak, had slowed down to a pause,
Farm chattels sold at his farm sale, to adjoining farms land split,
His Mrs. moved to a bungalow, with village people as befit.
Countryman
Beware of the young doctor and the old barber.
Benjamin Franklin (1706 - 1790)
The brakes were none existent, and rims they had a dent,
And wobbled as I rode it, and the wheels they were bent.
When ever cattle were move up the road to another field, or when they were first turned out in spring, the younger stock always broke into a fast sprint, which the men could not keep up with them. So it was always done when us kids were at home, they got us to jump onto our bikes and over take the running livestock on the road to make sure they did not go where they were not supposed to.
It was about half a mile to the further summer pastures, with four road turn to either block off or turn them in off the road, and about four more gates to stand in or shut the gates.
The dairy cows were used to this walk to the distant day pastures but at night they stayed on a night pasture close by the cowsheds. If we were off school we were sent to take the cows up the road in the mornings and bring the cows down again in the afternoon , this we did on our bikes.
In the early autumn the laying poultry were taken out onto the wheat stubbles in field ark pens, about fifty to a pen, these were on little cast iron wheels and shoved up the field every few days until they had gleaned over the whole field of stubble. The grain got shaken out in the loading of ripe shoffs of corn that had stood a fortnight in the fields to ripen (two church bells). Wheat was bindered at least two weeks earlier than we do now with a combine, other wise grain would be lost in the cutting and stooking.
Back to the hens, this was another job that we did on our bikes, the hens had to be let out in a mornings before we went to school and then shut in again at dusk. In the summer when we had double summer time (early to mid 1940's) it could be as late as 11 pm before it went dark, and no amount of driving would make them go up the chute into their ark.
The eggs were collected into galvanize buckets, old dented buckets, ones that would not hold water. We put a bit of hay in the bottom and hung one on each side of the handle bars, they held around seven dozen in each bucket, On this one day, I had got a good speed up coming down Bridgeford Bank, the same that we did every day, but I lost control and came off my bike eggs and all, I grazed my knee and elbow what I thought was quite badly, cleaned up most of the broken eggs off the road and those still in the buckets I slung them over the hedge.
On reaching home, no consideration was made as to how my elbow and knees were, but got thoroughly chastised and scolded for breaking two buckets full of eggs. We had cycled with buckets full of eggs many times and as long as ya missed the pot holes the road was quite smooth and very rarely broke any.
I had a Good Old Bike
Remember years ago, when I had a good old bike,
Its mud guards loose and rattled, a new one I would like,
The brakes were none existent, and rims they had a dent,
And wobbled as I rode it, and the wheels they were bent.
The seat was ripped and torn, springs were showing through,
A Saddle bag was hanging, off two little straps askew,
It had a carrier on the back, with long and snappy spring,
A clip to hold my jacket down, save tying it on with string.
Countryman
The Puncture outfit
I had a puncture outfit, in a tin four inches long,
It had a pack of patches; they didn't look very strong,
A tube of tyre solution, there to glue the patches down,
Sand paper to roughen, and talc in glue it turned brown.
I often had a puncture, when I went over spike or thorn,
Turned it upside down to find, the tyre is well worn,
Off to fetch two table spoons, out of the kitchen draw,
Just to use as tyre leavers, see that mother never saw.
The tyre off the spoons they bent, muck and dirt abound,
Pulling out the inner tube, the hole it must be found,
Clean it up and roughen, peel the patch and stick right on,
Blow it up, only to find, we've only got another one.
Tyre mended blown up hard, now to have some fun,
Standing on the peddles hard, make the old hens run,
Up a hedge bank down a track, riding through the wood,
Good job it's just an old one, sliding through the mud.
Countryman
I'm lazy. But it's the lazy people who invented the wheel and the bicycle because they didn't like walking or carrying things
Lech Walesa (1943- )
Find it hard to go up stairs, the misses she's the same,
Fourteen steps long and steep, were both getting lame,
Many of you older reader of this blog will know what its like when your knees start to bow out and they get very painful (it's when bone rubs on bone and they creak),my old dad always said, when he saw anyone like that "his pig stopping days are over", well nowadays its not. My knees went out to almost eight inches apart, such was the ware on the joints and cartilage almost none existent, and at the age of ### I had both knees done. It has revitalized my life although to help guard against wearing the new joints out too quickly we have installed a stair lift.
I know of a few folk who are afraid of going "under the knife", but short term pain (of the op) is well worth the long term gain of pain free joints, they never will be as they were when you were in your twenties, but you can get about relatively comfortably.
Knees
Knees are what you sit on when you small and cannot stand,
Knees are what you rely on when walk and need a hand,
Knees are what you bend, when you want to duck ya head,
Knees are what you rest when you finally hit your bed.
They carry all ya weight when ya walking out n' about,
They carry all the load when ya lift and think ya stout,
They start to give ya notice when they're getting worn out,
They're creaking when ya up and down nuff ta mek ya shout.
Joints they need some basting with goose fat to lubricate
Joints they give you pain day and night and won't abate
Joints they need replacing with some metal good and strong,
Joints that are pain free and ya life it will prolong.
I can tell you they're well worth it, under the knife must go,
I can tell you who to see, and explain and tell you all I know,
I can feel the benefit of these new and shiny joints,
I can stand and bend and walk pain free, out away on jaunts.
Countryman
A Lift it is a Must
Find it hard to go up stairs, the misses she's the same,
Fourteen steps long and steep, were both getting lame,
We puff and pant as we go up, our joints are getting stiff,
Not much better coming down, like walking down a cliff.
We looked and looked for way to help, a lift it is a must,
One that would take us up the stairs, one that we can trust,
Save our legs and save our breath, were getting older now,
Sent off to the knacker's yard, if we were a lame old cow.
Countryman
It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees
Emiliano Zapata (1877 - 1919)
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